


We Have Ways of Making You Smile

by guybriefly



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Crushes, Fluff, Insecurity, Laughter, M/M, Mischief, Tickling, Time bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 06:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: Nefarious Tropy isn't angry or anything. He's just like this in general. But wouldn't it just be a treat to see him smile? Like, really smile? For non-evil reasons? A physicist can dream...





	We Have Ways of Making You Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Literally who DOESN'T love the 'making the grumpy one smile/laugh' trope? More content for this ship. Like I said, I just fell in LOVE with it. Something about tall, cruel guys and their round, zany boyfriends just... does it for me. Also, this fic doesn't have to be considered continuous from my OTHER timebomb fic, but if you want to, like, I can't stop you. I live in Wales, what am I gonna do, mail you a threatening leek?  
> And, as I said, I take writing commissions, so check out my tumblr if you're interested.  
> Enjoy!

‘Smile.’

‘What? No.’

Gin makes a wheedling, whining noise, almost like a laugh. ‘You only smile when you’re be- _rating_ people, but you know, I bet you have just the swe-e-etest smile, if you’d show it.’

Dr N. Tropy scoffs, furrows his brow, looks away.

‘Your head wound must be acting up again.’ He sniffs. ‘Don’t you have something to be doing?’

Thinking, N. Gin watches Nefarious work, his sleek, long-fingered hands plucking at the minute cords and parts of the machine. It’s small. It’s supposed to be some sort of short-range time loop creator, a trap, catch its prey in a stable loop so they keep being reset to square one, wear them out, make them easy to capture. Gin doesn’t quite understand the temporal deregulator or telelocative cylinders but the physics makes _sense,_ the sight of the cogs and wires and pegs and pins and nodes are a balm and he feels a wave go through him, washing away the tension, the concept of an experiment going _right._

‘I said, don’t you have somewhere to be?’

He’s snapped out of the daydream by Tropy’s dry repetition of his previous question. Shuffling around, he makes an indecisive noise, a little like air escaping from a punctured dog toy, as he considers a way to avoid saying that he really doesn’t.

‘All I’m saying, is that I’ve never seen you smile, at least, not in earnest.’

The lilting, reedy voice causes Tropy to raise an eyebrow. ‘Of course you have. Don’t be a fool.’

‘Hnn, I’m not sure.’

‘Are you just saying that to get me to smile?’

Gin snickers weakly and Tropy chuffs.

‘You’re pathetic.’

‘Trust me.’ Gin shows Tropy the flat of his hand, scoffing. ‘I know.’

Chuckling briefly, Tropy sighs, then says, ‘Here. Here’s a smile for you.’ And he offers an awkward grin-grimace, pulling back his gums, and Gin lets out a cackle that wipes it right off of his face.

‘You call _that_ a _smile?’_ He lets out a long, braying laugh, before wiping a tear from his eye. ‘A real smile. I have a good eye,’ and he taps his metal cheek, below the bulging eyeball, ‘I can tell if you’re faking it.’

A frown crosses Tropy’s face. ‘If you want a real smile, you have to give me something to smile about.’ He tinkers with the machine, turning his gaze back to its complexities. ‘A sincere smile will only come to you if you _earn_ it.’

Mockingly repeating his words under his breath, Gin goes back to watching Tropy tinker in silence as he plans his next move. Okay, he has to find a way to make Tropy smile. Some part of him wants to ask _why_ he wants to see this so much, but he asserts that it’s just the principle, proving that he _can_ and _will_ see a genuine smile from the slightly-disgruntled master of time.

He gathers his ammunition. Jokes about Cortex. Slapstick humour. He could fall, or ‘accidentally’ open a cupboard and have everything fall onto him, that always makes Cortex laugh, although something tells him that Tropy might be more annoyed or concerned than amused. Bad jokes, so bad they’re good, jokes about time, yes, time puns, but maybe Nef is more attuned to highbrow humour, of course-

As he racks his brain, feeling his head pound from exertion, a thought occurs to him. His bulbous eyes flicker down; Tropy isn’t wearing the armour, he only does when he’s travelling, it protects him, regulates his body in the hostile vacuum between eras. No, he’s wearing his labcoat, and Gin can now speculate on how fragile he looks without the brassy clock-faced armour: he has broad shoulders, sure, but his waist is narrow and what catches Gin’s eye is the sudden, obvious vulnerability of his _ribs._

Engulfed in his work, Tropy doesn’t notice a hand creeping its way towards him. He’s completely absorbed. Tell-tale lines of concentration cross his brow and when, from the corner of his eye, he spots Gin’s snaggle-toothed smug grin it’s too late-

The noise he makes is _obscenely_ undignified.

Both men are extremely surprised. They jolt away from each other and Tropy almost falls off his seat, his blue face turning what _should_ be red, beads of sweat already beginning to form on his brow. The spot Gin’s fingers brushed still tingles, like an electric shock. Gin is taken aback, mostly by the noise, a strangled squeal-howl that sounds so extremely out of place coming from Dr N. Tropy’s mouth. Someone so… _lofty_ shouldn’t be _allowed_ to make a noise like that.

As the moment of shock trickles away, Gin recovers, and slowly raises his hands again. Breathlessly, he says, ‘Oh my god,’ and as a smile begins to form on his face and his eyes begin to glint with that eager madness he says it again, ‘Oh my god! You're- you're _ticklish!_ ’

‘Don’t.’ He’s flustered, panicked, so embarrassed, his voice cracks like a teenager's. ‘That wasn’t what it looked like. I mean it. I- I- I’m sure we can- talk about this-!’

Snickering, snorting, Gin relishes in seeing the larger doctor suddenly cowering.

‘No,’ he snorts, ‘But we can _laugh_ about it!’

Cortex, in the room below that laboratory, has to bash the ceiling with a broom handle to get them to stop. The laughter from both parties – Gin’s wild, insane, triumphant cackling and Tropy’s undignified, helpless peals of giggles – is awfully disruptive, not to mention Gin’s teasing and Tropy’s pleas and bargains. There’s a point where neither of them has any volume control and they reached it the second Gin tackled Tropy off his chair and _attacked_ his ribs with all of his tickling fingers.

So the two stop. Gin is sitting on the waist of an exhausted Tropy, slick black hair in disarray, panting as if he’s just ran a marathon or performed other… sensitive procedures; his skin is shining with sweat and bright with a breathless blush, but most noticeable, and most importantly, is the enormous grin that he doesn’t have the energy to stop himself from making, a huge smile as he gasps in air and slowly steadies his breathing, still giddy, still giggling.

Gin realises why he wanted Tropy to smile.

Not to humiliate Tropy, or to one-up him, no, although it was a strangely satisfying and empowering experience, to have such a prestigious and powerful scientist fall apart under him like that, or to have someone so tall and broad at the mercy of someone so short as Gin himself. Aside from scratching the itch only a Napoleon complex can aggravate, aside from boosting his ego to unprecedented levels, there’s something else.

He can’t tear his eyes away from that smiling blue face. It’s alight with warmth. There’s no stress or frustration or anger or tension. It’s like a sheet of ice has melted, like winter ice thawing through in the spring. Gin feels a pang in his heart and he feels his eyelid twitch. There’s a warmth in his chest and it _hurts_ but he can’t look away.

The still-breathless, still-weak Tropy tries to compose himself, still unable to wipe the smile off his own face, and the way the sweat drips from his strong jaw, down those prominent cheekbones, it makes Gin suddenly feel… _worse,_ inferior, his hand traces his own round, irregular, soft jawline and a stab of insecurity twists in his gut.

‘You… you’re…’ It takes Nefarious a moment to gather himself. ‘You’re an evil little man… you’re a little devil… oh, dear god…’ He falls back, letting out a pitiful chuckle. ‘Don’t ever tickle me ever again, N. Gin, or I swear to the time gods, I’ll cover you in ham and leave you in the Triassic period.’

Gin manages a small laugh, but the heave of Nef’s chest, the dip of his waist, how perfect his face is, and on _both sides of it,_ too, it kills the joy he’d felt. The pangs are still there, the strange, pulsing warmth and vague feeling of wanting, but it’s accompanied now by a distance, or a hopelessness, a feeling that although what he wants is literally right under his nose he couldn’t be further from having it if he tried.

Seconds later, Nef manages to wheeze out, ‘You’re crushing my legs…’

The two men stand up, a little awkwardly, and Nefarious decides to wrap it up for the day; he briefly but deftly organises the loose parts of the contraption and covers the whole thing with a sheet, ready for use tomorrow, exactly where he’s left it. Gin feels embarrassed, as if he’s humiliated himself, as if he’s grasped for something unattainable and has to learn a lesson. He feels stupid, he feels stupid, he feels stupid.

Then he feels something else. A pressure on his waist. A breath on his ear. He looks down to see Tropy’s hand resting on his stomach, he feels Tropy, bending down, pressing against him from behind, he hears the vengeful, smug smirk in his voice.

‘You mustn’t forget, two can play at this game, my little war-head~’

Tropy’s fingers curl, give a few squeezes of Gin’s soft belly, and the reaction is instantaneous and barely stifled – Gin’s eyes widen, his cheeks – well, cheek – flushes red, he hurriedly moves to swat the offending hand away from his tender tummy.

But it’s already gone. Nefarious pulls away from him with a low chuckle, unfolding to his full height, and he moves to leave; before he departs through the door, he turns back to a still somewhat stunned N. Gin-

And he flashes his pearly whites in a sly, playful _smile._


End file.
